Ted kept walking. Once out of the shadow of those tall buildings, he was able to concentrate on the meeting ahead. Lester would have identified the best place for a private conversation held in public view and settled in there.

East New York had clawed its way back from the worst times, but the terminal disease of inescapable poverty hung about. There were no abandoned or burned-out cars, though once there had been plenty, as the remains of stolen, stripped vehicles had been left, wheelless, seatless, and engineless on side streets, windshields plastered with parking tickets. Many of the boarded-up buildings had been taken down or revitalized with paint, plaster, and panes of new glass. But the pall of hopelessness was evident in the iron bars on first floor windows and steel grating around every bodega. These people were not going to be shopping in LBC’s giant mall—they’d be lucky to get jobs there sweeping the floor.

Lester was splayed across a concrete bench in the shade of a struggling gingko tree. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was slack, but he registered Ted’s approach with a snort and a whisper. “He’s late.”

Ted checked his watch. One o’clock, on the nose. “Not yet,” he whispered. He stepped away and waited next to a street sign. no parking, 12pm–2pm, tues & thurs.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Lester said.

Ted sat down next to him. “Ten minutes.”

-40-

-40-

The squad car came slowly down the block. There was no other traffic and no one on the street other than Lester and Ted. Lester—dirty, disheveled, smelling of booze and urine, with his sling hidden beneath his jacket—appeared to be sleeping on the bench. The cops ignored him. Ted was the anomaly. The car stopped in front of him.

“Are you lost, sir?” The young cop who spoke, a light-skinned black man, was riding shotgun.

“No.” Ted didn’t think the question warranted further explanation.

“Do you have business around here?” The cop had an attitude. The politeness was overdone. He wasn’t there to help.

Ted tried smiling. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The two cops conferred for a moment. The sunlight, reflecting off the windshield, created a shimmering blind. Ted couldn’t see the driver. He wished they would keep rolling on down the street. If the Judge saw them, he would cancel the meet.

The young cop opened his door and sauntered over. The driver got out and stood behind the car. He was older, white, fifties. Grey brush cut. Probably had had the same haircut since he left the army. He squinted against the sun, watching Ted intently.

“Can I see some ID?” the young cop asked.

Ted stood slowly. “I’m reaching for my wallet,” he said before placing his hand behind his back and lifting the slim billfold from his right hip. “Is there a problem?”

“I thought I smelled marijuana,” the cop said. “Did I smell marijuana?”